st. agnes, pray for us
When I was preparing for confirmation in my junior year of high school, the talk of the parish library where my peers and I met for CCD was of patron saints. Each of us was invited to pray about which saint would become our particularly close friend in heaven, and with the priest’s approval, the bishop would then bless us with the addition of the patron saint’s name to our own – a fresh animation of the vows already declared at baptism with the promise of a loyal spiritual companion.
We pored through well-worn editions of the Lives of the Saints and visited the art museum. We debated the virtues of biblical patrons (Stephen, Paul, the Marys) vs. paragons of virtue and bravery from latter centuries of the Church’s expansion. The kids named “Thomas” or “Catherine” had it easy, really, should they choose, but those of us named insufferably modern things like Ashley, Brad, Tyler, or (kyrie eleison) Brit had some work to do.
My parish priest suggested that I adopt Therese of Lisieux as my patron saint. I wasn’t more than passingly familiar with her, but he advised that I read Therese’s spiritual autobiography, Story of a Soul, and ask for her care and intercession. I’m ashamed to say that seventeen-year-old me would have none of it. It was the height of my contrarian adolescence, and there was absolutely no way I was inviting some consumptive, tragic, pious nun to be my patron saint in life and faith. I wanted someone angry and weird. I wanted someone who others had hated. I wanted someone who knew what it was to be brave and feral and consumed by irrational devotion in the face of danger.
I chose Saint Joan of Arc.
It is the truth, however, that the Holy Spirit is never without a demented sense of humor for the souls of the brave, the feral, the irrationally devoted. Saint Joan is indeed a friend and companion to me with intimacy and great grace, but it is my happy condition that Therese has never, ever let me go.
There is an entire book’s worth of writing I could do on St. Therese, on how Story of a Soul changed for me and changed me each time I’ve read it (12 or 13 times now, perhaps more). But the point of sharing all of this today is to point toward another saint of the Church whose life and witness are often misunderstood.
Today is the Feast of St. Agnes.
St. Agnes was martyred in Rome around the year 304 A.D. The hagiography tells us that she was a lovely young girl of noble birth, courted by men from various families of high status, who was dragged before the authorities and eventually killed when she refused to marry. She had consecrated her virginity to Christ, and she vowed to life chastely in service to God alone. At the time, Diocletian was still orchestrating systemic annihilation of Christians, and the blood of the martyrs still watered abundantly the seeds of the Church. There are various stories about Agnes’ faith and piety, some perhaps more historically credible than others. It is said that when she refused to marry, her pursuers insisted that she be dragged naked through the streets to a brothel where “if she was no man’s wife, she would be every man’s toy.” It is said that she prayed, and her hair grew long to cover her exposed body. It is said that when, at last, she was tied to a stake for burning, the wood would not catch, and an enraged soldier cut off her head in indignation. It is said that when the spectacle of her martyrdom ended, Christians returned in secret before nightfall to gather the remnants of her blood that had spilled onto the stadium floor.
For centuries, Agnes has been held up as exemplar of holiness for her purity and virginity and certainly for her passionate devotion to Christ above everything. It is important to note two things, and in my experience, these two things have not often been celebrated or taught together:
Agnes is not only holy for her purity and virtue, though purity and virtue are indeed fruits of her holiness. It is clear, even from the earliest legends and the earliest records of her influence on popular Christian devotion that she is also holy because of her bravery. At the age of twelve or thirteen, she resisted the political, cultural, and sexual expectations of girls and women in her own time. She refused to submit to pagan idolatry, and she took matters of commitment and faithfulness into her own hands. She is also deeply in love with Jesus Christ – a love beyond measure – a love for which death would be only one more threshold to cross upon a lifelong path toward perfect unity with the Beloved.
The “feminine” virtues associated with Agnes are indeed profound and noble virtues. And they are virtues meant for all disciples. This is not a post about purity culture – there are others who speak and write more knowledgeably about this than I can – but it is a post about the problem of false dichotomies. When I was seventeen, I was not interested in gentleness, in humility, in peace. I was tired of what I believed to be an image of womanhood that had little to do with strength. There is and was a truth to what I was experiencing then, but only because I had not yet encountered a portrait of virtue that honored the totality of the human capacity for grace. It is heroic to be pure of heart.
I have been in prayer at great lengths recently about the virtues of holiness, purity of heart, gentleness, and humility. The worlds in which I have moved are worlds that worship power, cherish success above all else, herald displays of physical beauty, strength, and mastery, and prioritize the mighty in all circumstances. While our societal heroes may no longer be kings or gladiators, it is no secret that our heroes are the 21st century’s answers to pagan idolatry. Even in the Church, I am tired of being prized for achievement, for potential, for power. It is not my vocation to “succeed.”
Saint Paul declares gentleness, goodness, patience, and peace to be fruits of the Holy Spirit. He is writing to men and he is writing to women. He is writing to those who followed Christ in that first century of the Church, and he is writing to us.
The Christian life is a life in the shadow of the Cross and in the light of the Resurrection. It is nothing more and certainly nothing less. Saint Agnes reminds us that the agony and exaltation exist together, in companionship with one another. She reminds us of our capaciousness: for peace and strength, humility and ferocity. I think there is a part of every heart that recognizes the necessity of both and all within us, no matter our bodies or circumstances, but I am inspired to pray today for the flourishing of things delicate and full of peace.
May each of us know the heroism of protecting a wild and peaceable internal silence.